


In Absence of Keen Judgment

by Paint Me a Symphony (youngerdrgrey)



Series: 1000 Theme Challenge [17]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-02-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngerdrgrey/pseuds/Paint%20Me%20a%20Symphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In that moment, in the small window, in the absence of keen judgment, something might just change. House/Cuddy. Spoilers for Season Five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Live to Tell

**Author's Note:**

> (#476 of 1000 Themes, "Live to Tell")

She can see it on those thin lips, can practically imagine them forming the words she longs to hear. For so many years, through so much, she has been looking for them. It isn't much. She is sure that it isn't impossible. Yet, the pursuit has nearly killed her. Now, so close to getting it, she presses on the small chest, eyes glistening, as her voice cracks more and more with each plea.

"Breathe, Joy. Breathe," she urges. The rest of the people be damned; Lisa continues speaking to the baby in her arms. She knows this is her last chance. What will there be after this? More IVF? She does not want to put her body through that again. Further adoption quests? Even more painful than seeing the negative line, she guesses. But, she has not lost the baby yet. She has not lost Joy yet.

When the lungs finally kick in, and the little creature takes its first breath. She does as well -- her first one as a mother. In that instant, she sees it all. She sees the trips to the day care and doctor's appointment, the first haircut and first steps, the long Sunday mornings just watching cartoons; it's all there.

The moments to come flash before her eyes all leading up to the one she longs for with all her heart. That simple moment, the brief second where all attention is focused on other things, when she seems and feels as insignificant as the ground she walks on, her little girl will look up at her and say, "I love you, Mommy."

Lisa isn't sure what she'll do then. Probably cry hysterically, or hug the child to death, but it won't matter, because Joy will be hers anyway. She can nurse the toddler back to prime strength and assure her that she is fine. And, Lisa will do all that and more. She will be the best mother Princeton has ever seen. She has to be, for herself, for Joy, and, for the words she can almost hear already.


	2. Tears of Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#828 of 1000 Themes, "Tears of Joy")

The yellow walls stare mockingly back at her. All sunshine and bright, just as the mood had once been. What was once a plausible space for new life is now nothing more than a room ready for padded walls and soaked T-shirts.

She doesn't know why she's even here. It can't be healthy. Not even twenty-four hours after losing her last chance at motherhood, and she's already in this room acting like the world has ended. In a way, hers has.

All her life, she has been dreaming and wishing for that purpose. First, it had been centered on becoming the doctor she had always wanted to be. That quickly transformed though into another dream much more difficult to achieve. The dream of being a mother, of caring for something beyond the normal limitations, overcame her. It took over all her other desires, shading the rest from exposing, or growing. Then, only hours after it was finally realized, her wish come true was snatched from her trembling hands. The after effect being the mass of sadness she portrays perfectly on the ground of her guest room.

In between the sounds of her ricocheting thoughts, she hears the noise that comes from crooked footsteps on carpet. The pattern is so familiar that she knows who it is without having to turn. The door creaks open slowly. She lowers her head down further.

"You, uh, okay?" he awkwardly asks. His voice is gruff and uncertain. He obviously feels wrong being in the room. He should anyway. This room was never meant for him. She guesses it was never meant for a child either.

"I'm fine," she says weakly. It's a lie, but it is to be expected. She feels his deep, penetrating, blue eyes roam over her body, scrutinizing, checking for something. Then, it stops.

"Your hand is red," he points out.

She doesn't really react. She saw that coming. He always notices the little things after all.

"It still burns," she tells him after a pregnant pause. She knows he must be confused now.

"From what?" he asks.

She shrugs, even though she knows what he's looking for. She waits before answering, trying to choose her words correctly.

"The feel… of motherhood."

She can practically see him rolling his eyes above her.

"You didn't go anal, and wash your hands a million times, did you?" he asks jokingly.

She looks up at his face and raises her eyebrow slightly. She does not answer him. Well, directly anyways.

"I-it was so small, barely the size of a nail polish cap, or the depth of a beeper. I could feel her pulse in her hand, House. I could feel it. This power, this urge to protect. And, now… it's gone.

"I guess you were right. My dream  _was_  stupid. I was never meant to be a mother."

He looks into her eyes weakly. Her mind screams at her to look away. She knows what he will see in her eyes. Resignation, misery, pain, anger, revulsion; the same things she can always read in his. Except for now. Now, she is not so sure what to take from the startling intensity of his baby blues. They always have been searing, but the look he is giving her chills her almost as bad as Becky's withdrawal.

She feels the physical blow before she even hears him whisper, "Maybe you weren't."

She feels the tears after those words register in her mind. She really needs to look away now. Last thing she needs is for him to see her cry.

She tries to blink the tears away, unsuccessfully. Through the haze of her blotchy eyes, she sees him moving. He is stepping towards her, arms open. Soon, they are around her, blanketing her shivering frame in his steady one.

It takes her a moment to see what it is. The small embrace is everything he can never say, everything he needs and wants to communicate.

A thousand apologies, a million comforts, and one overall key point: love.

With that word, the dam breaks and all her anguish is released. Not only the melancholy brought on by the week's events, but much more. She cries for the man beside her, for the time they can never get back. She cries for Becky and for the greatness the girl tried to share. She cries for herself and her fallen dreams. But, mostly, she cries for Joy, the symbol of a chapter in her life that must now close, and the reason for the yellow room that seems to weep beside her.


	3. Hold My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#354 of 1000 Themes, "Hold My Hand")

He cannot remember the last time they were this open. For as far back as he can recall, all they had ever been was laid out clearly before them. It just isn't like that this time. Every move he makes can be taken in multiple ways, and he isn't as quick to distinguish it anymore.

In the past, they knew their limitations, having drawn them ahead of time. Now, with so much time passed, so less life to live, those boundaries just don't seem so real anymore. Where they are is confusing at least, mind-churning at best. So, as she holds out her hand into the lingering space between them, he is unsure what course of action to take. Should he take the hand, or not?

"It's a hand, House. I'm pretty sure you're familiar with the way they work," she taunts playfully.

"That I am, I'm just checking it for girl cooties. Don't want to end up in a hospital or anything," he retorts. She rolls her eyes in the way she always does when he talks.

"Yeah, who likes those places?" she asks sarcastically.

"I surely don't. Horrible places, hot staff though," he adds as an after thought.

"Hospital workers cannot be hot," she tells him.

"What are you talking about? I know this one doctor who is gorgeous," he gushes.

"You do?" she questions.

"Absolutely. Nice dark hair, mysterious blue eyes, sexy curves, bright smile," Lisa smiles lightly, "And the working for me thing makes her even hotter!"

Lisa frowns. He smirks at her expression.

"What? You've got to admit that Thirteen is pretty hot," he continues.

"She isn't that bad," Lisa admits reluctantly.

"But, you know, there is another person even better looking than Thirteen," he starts, she looks up interested, "Cameron is-"

"House!"

"What? You already know you're good looking. Can we focus on someone else's breathtaking ass and amazing chest for once?" he asks rhetorically.

"You're an ass," she responds.

"And you are not holding out your hand anymore," he notes. She looks at her right palm, which is now swinging at her side as she walks forward.

"So I am."

"Why? Arm get tired?" he asks.

"More like I figured you weren't going to take it," she replies honestly.

"Now, why would I do that? We've already established there's something good in hospitals. I can withstand the girl cooties, Cuddy. And, if I can't, you'll just have to inject me with some morphine to ease away the pain."

She laughs at him lightly. Cautiously, she lets her hand go back into the valley of space between them. He makes no move to grab it.

"Aren't you going to grab my hand?" she asks.

"In this day and age, pa-shaw!" he exclaims. She rolls her eyes and brings her hand back to her side quickly.

"You make no sense, House," she comments.

"I never have," he points out.

"But, these days, you're just… confusing," she mentions.

"Maybe you're just getting too old to keep up with me, Cuddles," he tries.

"You're older than I am," she shoots.

"It's definitely just the hormonal thing," he throws out.

"Not my time yet, nice try though," she says.

"Well, it can't be that we're just in a new playing field without regulations. That would be dumb."

"And stupid," she adds.

"Insane," he piles on.

"Astronomical."

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

She looks at him warily.

"The word that means whatever you want it to mean," she states in disbelief.

"I needed a word to top your ass' mighty power," he deflects.

"You are nothing but a child, House," she says.

"You could be one too if you come to Neverland with me," he offers.

"How do I do that?"

"Well, you'll have to do something really risky," he warns.

"I can take it," she assures.

"You're going to have to be a big girl, stick your hand back out, and hold onto mine for a very long time. You can't let go, or the magic will wear off," he instructs.

"So, like this?"

She reaches over and grabs the hand not occupied by his cane. He nods, his eyes on hers now.

"Just like that," he encourages.

"What happens if I let go?"

"You won't."

"But what if I do?"

"You won't, Cuddy."

"House-"

"Cuddy, you're ruining the moment. Just walk and don't think," he commands. She opens her mouth to speak again. He squeezes her hand softly. Her gaze flutters back to their interlocked hands. Suddenly, she doesn't want to talk anymore. She wants to do just what he says because everything he has said is true. She won't let go. She will never let go. Not of his hand, this moment, or him.

Everything he says can be taken in a few different ways. She chooses to take one particular thing in the way that pleases her most. If only she wasn't a doctor, then she'd be able to pretend that hand and heart are as synonymous as House and baggage.


	4. Esoteric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#233 of 1000 Themes, "Esoteric")

Everything has a pattern.

Every movement is part of a sequence somewhere along the line.

Rain falls in a way unlike what everyone portrays. It isn't a 'drip, drop', nor a 'goosh, plop'. Rather something more intricate and intimate pounding the keys of the universe simply for the avid listener. Someone who pays attention can find plenty of things in the downpour. A hope; a friend; a sign screaming for them to move to the next step. Everything lies in the patterns surrounding them.

Relationships have patterns as well. The one that lies there is often even more complex than the way liquid hits the ground. However, it is based on a very simple concept; give and take. It repeats, and the players change and alternate, but, ultimately, it is simply that. It is this concept that has Lisa Cuddy watching the shower outside her home so curiously. It is probably just a hallucination, but she swears she can hear words form in the sounds of the splatter.

It must be her conscience, she supposes after a minute or two. Surely rain doesn't yell at people to take action. Rain never says, "Say something! Say something!" Besides, she would have to be a lunatic to listen to nature calling; her conscience, not so much.

She whispers then his name into the air.

"House."

It seems to have gotten lost in the space between them for it never reaches his ears. He -- who lies against the wall in the small room, towering like a mighty oak -- is as unresponsive as before. She tries again, louder this time.

"House," she urges.

He groans, lifting his head from the sandy crevice of lofty dreams.

She can tell from his reaction time that he had been asleep. She tries to ignore the sign in his voice when he speaks in a rumble, deep as the ocean.

"What?"

She smiles at the (tired, kind of dopey, lost in transition) expression, informing him, "The rain is easing up. You should be able to head home pretty soon."

His head bobs droopily. His face is hidden from view, causing her to miss the flash of discontent that passes.

"Your place is making me tired," he grumbles. Her lips turn upwards at his exclamation. She had almost forgotten how poor he was at making conversation.

"Or it could just be the insane hours you've been putting in for Patrick," she supplies. He pulls his gaze up to her eyes, confusion floating loosely in his blue orbs.

"Patrick?" he repeats.

"Your patient," she reminds him, "You know, the guy you've been trying to save for the last three days."

He nods then.

"Oh, Headband-Guy," he mutters. As an afterthought, he adds, "I hope Thirteen is actually treating him. I'd hate for her not to and the guy to go into another cardiac arrest because she was too busy with her death-sentence-induced jungle fever."

Lisa catches sight of the ceiling following that. Of all the people on staff, it has to be Greg House who focuses on relationships. Most employers barely know if their team is married or not, let alone exactly who they're dating with suspected motives as to why. She decides to poke fun at him.

"I'm starting to think you're jealous, House," she starts, "Always so interested in what Dr. Hadley does with her time. Aren't you getting a little Cameron-ish?"

Greg frowns at her, gasping indigently.

"Never! I could not be that pathetically sincere when talking to dying people in my life. Just ask Thirteen," he jokes. At least, it should be a joke. Both adults know that it is sadly is the truth.

"Still, you're either jealous of what she has, or you're actually starting to like your fellows," Lisa concludes.

"You're right, Cuddy," Greg agrees, his voice taking on a defeated hint, "I'm just looking for that lucky son-of-a-bitch ex-con who will give me a spot in a drug trial, break into my apartment, and then kiss me during a staff party. I'm hoping to find mine by Valentine's. I'd love to miss that party."

She smirks.

"If you're a good boy, I'll let you do clinic that night."

"Really? Oh, won't you, Mommy? I just love the clinic!"

The sarcasm in that statement is so thick, she nearly chokes on it. Her rebuttal is weak because of it.

"I'm not your mother, House," she says.

"Good thing. Kissing you mother is even more frowned upon than kissing your boss," he comments.

"The appeal in doing either is esoteric," she remarks.

His eyebrows climb up his forehead, ending almost symmetrically to the half smile on his face.

"The appeal in making a move on a babe like you is hard to comprehend?" he asks.

"Well, maybe not the appeal, but the end game," she clarifies, "I mean just look at our... uh."

Her sentence kind of falls apart when she looks at his curious face. She cannot exactly find the right way to end that sentence. How should she describe them? They aren't a couple; that would involve actually doing things together. They aren't friends with benefits; unless you count emotional baggage as benefits. And, they certainly aren't just employer-employee; they never were, to be honest.

Her eyebrows knit in concentration. He, meanwhile, tries to figure out what she was saying before.

"Our what? Our bird house?" he guesses, "Chicken farm? Love child? Widely expanding fan base? What are we talking about here?"

She resigns to saying the only thing that will shut him up.

"Our, for lack of a better word, relationship," she shares. His confusion melts away instantly. She expects him to cower back into his reclusive shell like usual, but this time he does not.

"Finish your thought," he commands. The assertive force comes up short of the bar, leaving her hearing more of a request than anything else. Still, she speaks, ranting almost with the first thing to come to her mind.

"The actuality of our… relationship is esoteric. It's hard to understand, more likely to be comprehended by a small number of people with special knowledge."

"Ie, you, me, and Wilson?" Greg says to check.

"You can't honestly say you understand it, House," she declares, "No one fully understands it because it makes no sense. It -- this -- isn't normal. First, we hated each other. Next thing I know, we're sleeping together. Then, we're not. Then, we are again. Then, we're in two separate states. Then comes Stacy, and the infarction, and the baby mania, and Joy, and now…."

She looks up into his eyes again, practically pleading when she asks, "What are we, House?  _Where_  are we?"

He turns his head from hers.

"We're House and Cuddy," he answers, "That's all we ever were and ever will be. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just, the two of us."

She looks to her slippers, still confused as ever. She should have never expected to learn anything from him anyway. He has always failed at expressing anything emotional. Despite that, the words he speaks drive home. They really are just that; House and Cuddy. With the awkwardness of future introductions ("Oh, yeah, this is the House part of House and Cuddy.") and the bitterness of past conversations, they are what they are.

"Is that okay with you?" he asks after a pause. She figures the question is directed more towards her coming attitude than anything else.

"It's fine," she responds. It truly is. They are House and Cuddy, as esoteric and frustrating as that may be. She is not completely sure what that means, whether it be romantic, platonic, or otherwise. But, it's what they always have been. Two separate entities brought together strangely by something small. They've been in countless situations that most groups couldn't handle, or sustain standing. The pattern for them is tiring and mind-numbingly hard to comprehend. But, it doesn't matter because if there's one thing that Greg thrives on, it's puzzles. And figuring them out seems to be one hell of a challenge.


End file.
